


The Angel Cried for Slaughter

by sceptick



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Minor Violence, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sceptick/pseuds/sceptick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"My dear Shae, do you see what I see in light of these facts?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She meets Varys' eyes. She thinks of lovely Sansa Stark, so desperate to be away. Shae has known men like Littlefinger before, men who feared and hated women. Would she trust Sansa to the care of one of those men?</i>
</p><p>
  <i>She nods once, curtly. Varys smiles. “Valar Morghulis,” he says, and Shae smiles too.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Angel Cried for Slaughter

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: contains one misogynistic slur used multiple times (as per the show), non-graphic violence, discussion of canon character death (Ros), and major character death. Set between _The Climb_ and _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_.
> 
> Yes, I know this isn't going to happen in canon. Let's just say I needed some kind of catharsis after the events of _The Climb_ , and, well, _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ didn't exactly joss this, huh? So until next Sunday I am going to keep on pretending this happened :)
> 
> I own nothing. A million zillion thanks to elvabarr for being such an excellent beta <3

Shae sits by Lady Sansa’s side until Sansa's cried herself to sleep. The moment her door closed behind Tyrion, Sansa had begun to shake with gasping, tearless sobs, like she couldn’t breathe. The tears only started when she arrived at the dock to find Lord Baelish gone, and she hasn’t stopped since. Shae does not cry. She has lost her lover, but she is not a child of fourteen. She is not trapped to an engagement she doesn’t want, and she has not just lost the only two chances at freedom she’s been offered. Sansa’s hair is soft beneath her fingers. She’s been taking better care of herself since the Tyrells reached out to her, and Shae has been glad to see it. Perhaps that, too, will now end.

There’s a quiet knock at the door. Shae rises to her feet, clenching her hands into fists. If it’s Tyrion, she has a few choice words prepared for him, not all of them in the Common Tongue.

A guard slips in, near-soundlessly despite his heavy armor. He glances quickly towards Sansa, then back to Shae, and says, in a carefully quiet voice, “Lord Varys is here to see you.”

“Tell him to go away,” Shae says, crossing her arms. “He can come back in the morning, if he likes. Lady Sansa must sleep.”

There’s a pause, and then -- “I’m not here to see the Lady Sansa,” comes the familiar silky voice from beyond the door.

Shae frowns. She turns to the guard. “Tell him to wait,” she says sharply. “I’ll come out.”

The guard bows slightly, and exits. This guard, he’s a good man, better than most people in this snake’s pit. He’s been decent to Sansa on a few occasions – told off other guards when they saw fit to discuss Sansa’s inevitable fate within her hearing, small things like that. Shae taps her foot thoughtfully, then glances back to her slumbering charge and reaches a decision.

She grabs the knife she’s been hiding inside Sansa’s vanity on her way out. _Better safe than dead_ , she tells herself, as she slides it into its sheath and slips it into the wide cloth belt cinched around her waist.

With the door closed carefully behind her, Shae turns to the guard. “You will protect her,” she orders, lifting her chin the way the Queen does. “You will not let anyone but me enter this room.”

The guard hesitates, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Shae frowns. “You will protect her,” she says, “or I will tell your _Lord Tyrion_ that you have endangered his bride. Are we understood?”

“Yes, my lady,” the guard says, and he bows again. Shae nods approvingly, and off to the side Lord Varys chuckles.

“My lord,” Shae says, and she offers him a curtsey. This courtly nonsense comes easier now; Sansa is good at it, and Shae has learnt some at her side. Varys smiles, and offers her his arm, just as Loras Tyrell did for Sansa. Shae accepts Varys’ arm, and, when he tugs at her elbow, allows him to lead her away.

“How is Lady Sansa?” he asks, and Shae tilts  her head, wondering what to tell him. Tyrion never trusted Varys, but Shae is not Tyrion. She is not afraid of spiders, or of whispers. Only the nobility fear those.

“She is sad,” she says finally. “Her one true love is to marry another.”

“Her _second_ one true love, you mean? Her love for Joffrey was well proclaimed not so long ago.”

Shae smiles. “A person can love many, Lord Varys.”

“And you’d be the expert on that, I suppose,” he says. “Regardless, I’m not sure her second engagement would have brought her as much joy as she may have thought. Do you know why?”

They turn down another hall. Shae glances to the tapestries along the walls to get her bearings, and says, absently, “I am not blind. But even a boy who loves cock would be better than a boy who loves death.” She reaches out her free hand, trails fingers along rough fabric depicting a bloodied hunter and his prey. “Why are we going to the south tower, my lord?”

“You’re a clever girl,” Varys says. “I’ve a fondness for clever girls. It doesn’t always work out for them, I’m afraid.”

They slow to a halt in front of the door to the south tower. As she watches, Varys takes a torch from off the wall, and then, with his free hand and a key that had hung around his neck, unlocks the door. Inside, it is dark and musty, for the tower has been out of use for quite some time. In the flow of the torch’s flame Shae picks out overturned furniture scattered on the floor, covered in an ashy layer of dust. Varys ignores all of this. Instead, he gestures her towards the window, wordlessly.

Shae picks her way across the room, and ducks her head through the window.

On the ground below, four men exit the Keep by a door Shae hadn’t known existed. Between them they carry something limp and red.

Shae swears. Behind her, Varys murmurs his agreement.

“Littlefinger’s _associate_ ,” she says. One of the men loses his grip, and the woman’s copper curls fall into the mud. Shae’s fingers tighten around the wooden window sill until her knuckles shine white in the torchlight. “She was one of your clever girls?”

“Yes,” Varys says. “And Littlefinger found out.”

“She warned me not to trust him.” Shae stares down at the scene below her, hate humming in her veins. “He wanted Sansa.”

“Yes, he does.”

Shae thinks of her knife. “He’s lucky he left when he did.”

There’s a pause, and then Varys drums his fingers against the window sill, _tap-tap-tap_. “He’s not as gone as you might think. Littlefinger never leaves a game unfinished.”

Shae turns to Varys, and waits. This, then, is why he has brought her here.

Varys steps back from the window, and spreads his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Shae is not fooled. “I fear for Sansa Stark,” Varys says. “She is a clever girl, too, although not yet as clever as you, my dear, or Ros. And Littlefinger likes clever girls, but only while they are less clever than him.”

“And you would never make that mistake, of course,” Shae says. Her tone is teasing, but her gaze is hard and challenging.

“Gods, no. Unlike Littlefinger, I don’t fear women. That is, I don’t fear them simply because they _are_ women.”

“Is that his problem, then?”

“I couldn’t say,” Varys said. “But his behavior – the unquenchable need for power, the lack of empathy for the women in his service – is certainly suspect.”

Shae mulls this over, turning her gaze to the window.

Varys smiles. “Perhaps the question of _why_ Littlefinger is, well, _Littlefinger_ , can wait for another time. The facts stand: he is directly responsible for the gruesome murder of a woman for whom I had the utmost respect. He has departed from King’s Landing, but he has not gone far. He is still in the game. He still wishes to own Sansa Stark. My dear Shae, do you see what I see in light of these facts?”

Shae meets his eyes. She thinks of lovely Sansa Stark, so desperate to be away. Shae has known men like Littlefinger before, men who feared and hated women. Would she trust Sansa to the care of one of those men?

She nods once, curtly. Varys smiles. “Valar Morghulis,” he says, and Shae smiles too.

\--

It is not hard to escape from the castle for a day, nor is it hard to discover where Littlefinger has gone. Shae has her ways. She’s reluctant to leave Sansa’s side, however; Sansa who has become listless and pale again, and who only smiles when it is required of her by the Queen and her mad boy king. It is for Sansa’s sake that Shae puts off what needs to be done, even though what she plans is also for Sansa’s sake.

A few days after her meeting with Lord Varys, an opportunity arises. Margaery Tyrell bursts into Sansa’s room, all a-flutter with talk of weddings and matching dresses and _won’t Sansa come down to sit with grandmother and I, we can plan to our hearts content, or even talk of other things if you’d prefer_ – and Shae takes her chance.

“You should go, my Lady,” she says quietly to Sansa, as Margaery flits around the room, opening the curtains to let the sunshine in and picking through Sansa’s meager supply of dresses for something suitable.

Sansa reaches out to take Shae’s hands in her own. Her grasp is surprisingly strong, and Shae feels hope. “You could come with us, I’m sure – that is, if you’d like to –“

Shae smiles gently. “I can amuse myself for a few hours,” she says, and then, letting her grin become impish, “Perhaps I’ll find myself some company. It’s been too long since I’ve broken a man’s heart.”

Sansa very nearly laughs at that, and then Margaery is back, tugging Sansa away with soft hands to inspect the clothing choices she’s made. Shae slips out the door, unnoticed.

Once into the city proper, it’s easy enough to secure a ride out the gates. Littlefinger’s ship, according to a guard with too much drink in him, is anchored just off the coast beyond the city limits, and the man himself spends his nights in one of his own brothels in a town on the shore. The wagon takes her from King’s Landing to this town, and it costs her next to nothing; the man driving it wears a Tyrell pin, and the Tyrells are known for their charity. A part of Shae wonders, however, if perhaps the Tyrells know of her intentions and approve. Varys could have told them. As he’d told her, he is fond of clever girls, and while Olenna Tyrell is far from a girl, she is, as far as Shae has seen, exceedingly clever.

None of that matters to Shae, of course. She doesn’t care much for the politics of high lords and ladies – until they hurt those she chooses to care for, that is.

The front door to the brothel is locked, but the back door isn’t. Shae slips in to find the place well-nigh silent and seemingly abandoned. She does catch voices coming from upstairs, so she takes her knife in hand and advances soundlessly upwards.

The uppermost room is, Shae knows from experience, reserved usually for guests of honor, those that can afford it. She pauses at the door and listens. Littlefinger’s voice is instantly recognizable, a low rumble that ignites the hatred she’s kept simmering for the past few days. Two more voices inside, both unknown to her. Littlefinger must have emptied the place out on arrival in order to keep his secret, but apparently he couldn’t resist a little entertainment while he waited for Sansa to come to him.

Shae doesn’t know the specifics of his plan, but she doesn’t need to. She knows what kind of man he is now.

Gripping her knife behind her back with her right hand, she pushes the door slightly open with her left. Through the crack she can see Littlefinger extended on his stomach on the bed, naked and carefree. Two girls kneel beside him. None of them are looking her way, so confident in the knowledge that they are alone. The room is gently lit by only the poor daylight streaming in through the window and a low fire in the hearth on the far wall. It makes for a serene picture.

Shae opens the door fully, and says, “You two, leave. Lord Baelish, lie still where you are, or I’ll cut your cock off before I end you.”

The girls start in fright, and stumble quickly away from the bed. One of them, a pretty girl with skin darker than Shae’s and quick, darting, clear eyes, obeys immediately and slips past Shae and out the door. The other, however, has a look Shae knows well: stubborn, loyal. Her shoulders are broad like a farming girl’s. Another whore saved from poverty by his lordship, Shae thinks, her lips twisting cynically. That could perhaps have been her.

“You’re pretty,” she tells the girl. “Your hair, particularly, is beautiful. So red. If you leave now, you should go to the city. You could go far, there. You won’t go anywhere if you stay.”

“I won’t let you kill him,” the girl says.

“Why shouldn’t he die? Because he saved you?” The girl doesn’t move, but her whole bearing stills and pauses, and her confusion is clear. Shae smiles. “You’re a fool. I was wrong -- you won’t go far at all. There’s no place in this world for a foolish whore.”

The girl gapes at her.

“But do you know,” Shae says, “there’s even less place for a dead whore. Dead whores are carried out through back doors and nobody cares. Do you know who your Littlefinger is? What kind of man he is?” She jabs a sharp finger at the girl. “He’s a man who would kill you as soon as fuck you. Is that the man you want to die for?”

The girl hesitates, and glances back at Littlefinger, who has twisted to stare at Shae. There’s recognition in his eyes. Good. His expression goes clear suddenly, all save his eyes, which have a cold cunning about them. Shae tightens her grip on her knife.

“Go, Hanna,” Littlefinger says. “Save yourself.”

“ _What?”_ says Shae, and a beat later the girl, Hanna, echoes her, horror in her voice.

 “You needn’t die on my behalf, girl,” he says, a piteous look on his face. “Leave while she’ll still let you.”

“Petyr,” Hanna says, reaching for him with a shaking hand, and he jerks upright violently, forward and onto his knees. “ _Go!_ ” he yells.

She stumbles back, almost knocking into Shae. With one last, distraught look in Littlefinger’s direction, she flees. Shae and Littlefinger are finally alone.

“What are you doing?”

Littlefinger smiles, but it’s a trembling, scared thing. Shae doesn’t believe she’s imagining the smugness in his eyes, though, belying the message of his mouth. “If I’m going to die,” he says, and his voice trembles, too, “I’d like to end my life with an act of mercy.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” Littlefinger inches forward on the bed, closer to her. “Believe it or not, I care for the women who work for me. Whatever grudge you have against me, I won’t have it hurting any of them.”

“Really.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, and he reaches his hands out towards her, his eyes on her knife. “I swear it by the old gods and the new. I’ll swear it by whichever gods you want.”

“If you don’t believe in my gods, how can you swear by them? An empty vow is worthless. What about Ros? You expect me to believe you cared for her? You showed it strangely.”

He widens his eyes. They glisten at the corners in the low light of the room; unshed tears, she supposes. “I cared deeply for Ros. I’d have given anything to keep her by my side, you must believe that.” She must, perhaps, but she doesn’t. Every word out of this man’s mouth is a lie. Ros warned her, before. She keeps her face carefully neutral, though, because his eyes watch her relentlessly.

“She betrayed me,” he says. “I’m a man of business. You’re Lady Sansa’s maid, but before, what you said to Hanna – you weren’t always a maid, were you? Well. As a … woman of business, you must understand how limited my options were. I can’t have traitors in my home.”

She steps closer. “So you killed her.”

“No,” Littlefinger says. “I could never harm a hair on that girl’s head.”

 “You handed her off to one of your dogs, then.” A coward as well as a murderer. She takes another step. “Like the boy king, with his knights, did to Sansa.”

Littlefinger’s little fingers tighten in the sheets around him. Not so brave now, alone and naked and unarmed. He still has his words, though, and he uses them, trying to turn Shae away from her goal. “Is that what you fear – that I will harm the Lady Sansa? You misjudge me, my lady. I loved her mother, have you not heard? I would never harm a hair on Lady Sansa’s fair head. You must believe me in this, if in nothing else.”

Shae takes one more step forward, bringing Littlefinger into reach. She frowns, and brings her free hand up to tap a finger thoughtfully to her chin. “You ask me to believe you. Because you saved the life of one whore, and because Ros betrayed you. You expect me to believe you, when you say you are not a danger to Sansa Stark.”

His jaw shifts, and his eyes flicker between her face and the knife in her hand. “Yes,” he says. “I am not a monster. I’m just a man, and I am _begging_ you to believe me.”

Shae says, “I do not,” and lunges forward at him. Littlefinger is no warrior, and though he’s bigger than Shae, he’s slower, too. He tries to pin her to the bed, but it’s clumsy, awkward, showing a knowledge of theory but no practice. She knees him in the side until he topples over, and she shoves him off the bed, and then she’s down beside him, drawing her knife across his throat while he gasps and gags.

Finally, he is still. Shae rises to her feet, and wipes her hands off on her dress. It’s ruined. Blood stains the fabric red where the skirt trails near Littlefinger, and the sleeves are drenched too. She spits on Littlefinger’s corpse. “This dress is the last thing you’ll destroy.”

She strips quickly, and rummages around the room until she finds a suitable dress in an armoire off to the side. Her old dress goes into the fire. She leaves without a backward glance, secure in the knowledge of a job well done. Let Littlefinger rot there, she thinks. Let his girls stay away in fear for a half-dozen days before they come and find him. Let his end be as ugly as him.

She takes some food from the kitchens on her way out. She has a long journey home ahead of her, and still further troubles ahead. 

 

 

 


End file.
